


Solicitors Not Welcome

by Squidink



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Slash, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-10
Updated: 2009-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade always knew it would be Creed knocking down his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solicitors Not Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: dub-con; explicit sex.
> 
> Written for a /coq/ prompt way back when. It is a pretty shameless PWP.

“Oh.”

Victor’s not sure what it says about Wade or what it says about him that he’s not surprised when Wilson opens the door, beer in one hand and gun in the other, in nothing more than a wife-beater and boxers.  Victor smiles – though it’s less a smile than a careful tightening of muscles in a generally upward direction – and takes a personal moment to look the man up and down, taking it all in.  Wade’s eyes are ringed with the evidence of one too many late nights, bloodshot at the corners because he’s been staring at a television too long.  The mechanical smell of gun cleaner wafts out from the apartment, overpowering in the small space.  Behind him, in brilliant Technicolor, cans and bottles and laundry and various accouterments of the trade are scattered across the floor without rhyme or reason, a mine field of clutter.

Victor’s lips stretch a little more, to reveal the edges of teeth too sharp to be human. “Classy.”

“Yeah.  Sure.  Good suit’s in the drycleaners.” Wade’s eyes flick briefly around Victor, checking the perimeter.  It’s almost an eye roll but not quite so petty, and Wade lets go of the door, shuffling back in the universal gesture of reluctant welcome, gun waving Victor inward. “C’mon in then, don’t want to scare the neighbors.”

The biting chemical scent is even stronger inside, and it’s a supreme effort of will on Victor’s part to not snort.  Wade clicks the door shut behind him warily, finger still resting on the trigger as if it means something. “What brings you around these parts?  Last I checked, I was a bit out of your stomping grounds,” he says, casual as anything, picking his way around Victor and nearer to a cache of rifles.

Victor doesn’t deign to answer or even watch his progress, just taking it all in. 

The dull five-am light streams through the bent and broken blinds to lend a grey hue over the whole apartment, the trash and half-put-together weapons.  Now that he’s in the thick of it, Victor can pick out a cacophony of smells: sweat, booze, TV dinners and their plastic trays, the curious odor of illness – coppery and faint, but there all the same – the slightly stale taste to a room that hasn’t seen an open window in too long.  In lieu of food, the counters were stacked with bullets of every make and size, at least half made to accompany weapons that were illegal in this state anyways.  There are three sets of combat boots in the corner, polished to a high, military shine and creased as old men’s faces.  A sword lays on the end table by the sofa, between two empty coffee mugs.  There appears to be butter on the end of it.

It’s a very telling picture, Victor thinks, running his fingertips along the TV antennae.  His nails make a curious hissing noise along the metal, shrill but quieter than he would have expected, and the _Golden Girls_ laugh track crackles with static.

Behind Creed, Wade flops down into the couch, trying hard to pretend he doesn’t care a whit that Victor’s there.  Sweat is beading on his brow. Like he didn’t already _know_.

Wade sets the handgun on his armrest, sinking into the cushions that seemed willing enough to swallow him whole.  He gestures sloppily with his half-chugged can of beer, regal as a king. “Sorry, all out of meow-mix.  I could pull out a saucer of milk if you want.  Not like you have to worry about expiration dates.” He laughs a little, like he just told a joke, slumping limply aside but his eyes are as focused upon Victor as sniper points. “Hey, Vicky, answer something for me.  Do your toenails do the same thing?”

“Stryker wants you back in.”

Wade tilts his beer back and forth, taking a thoughtful sip and letting his legs fall a bit more open, even if Victor notices he sets his feet firmly against the ground. “’Cause that’d be inconvenient, I bet.  I’ve been thinking, and it seems like bone claws are so much more practical.  Easily stored ’n’all.  Guess you got the short end of the genetic stick on that.  Don’t feel bad, though.  I’m sure you’re a huge hit with cat ladies.  Like the coat, too.  Very flasher-esque.”

Experience has taught Victor the best way to deal with Wade was to just cut right on through. “We’re getting the team back together.”

“That’s nice.  Much as I’d love to prance around doing manicures and gossiping and braiding everyone’s hair, I think I’ll sit this one out.  Cheers, though.” And he slams back the rest of his beer, exposing just enough of his throat to tease, before smiling and tossing the empty can over his shoulder. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Too bad,” Victor says, drumming his fingers meditatively on the TV, enjoying the hollow echo of it and the way Wade frowns. “Stryker let me see your medical files.”

Wade glances up at that, draping one arm across the back of the couch, trying so hard to look relaxed.  It’d be cute if it wasn’t so sad. “’Course he did.”

Victor nods agreeably, sauntering around the room, poking his head in the kitchen, the bathroom, letting his lip curl as he sees all the empty pill bottles filling up the sink and the trash and the drawers. “That’s a nasty way to go.  Or so I hear.  Are you freelancing now?”

“Pay’s better.”

“Healthcare’s not.”

There is a terribly long silence. “… Sweet as it is you came all the way out to see li’l old me, you can just keep your girlscouts to yourself.  I’m not in.” There’s no hiding it now; Wilson’s legs are tensed, fingers curling around the leather wrap of his katana with an audible creak. “I’ll write.  We can be pen pals.”

“I don’t have to be nice about this, Wade.” Victor’s pulse starts to rocket.  He’d so been hoping it would come to this.

The couch squeaks as Wade shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I don’t either.”

“Ooh, scary, Wade,” Victor drawls. He wiggles his fingers. “I’m shaking over here.”

“You oughta be leaving now.”

“Tough talk from the dying man.”

And just like that, it’s a whirl of motion.  Wade lunges up out of his seat, sword swinging in low and fast as Victor’s springing forward, everything slowing down, but the all the beer and bad news must’ve dulled Wade’s reflexes, because suddenly he’s on his back, the couch crashing back behind them, Victor crouching over his belly.  One hand is placed squarely on the center of Wilson's chest, the other holds the katana’s blade flat against the ground.  Victor's nails dig in.

Victor leans in close, breath warm and mild against Wade’s cheek. “Too slow.”

Wade opens his mouth with a dry click, tugging up on the sword in a futile attempt to free it—

And Victor grunts when Wade's opposite fist collides with the side of his face, turning his head aside sharply.  He snarls, baring his teeth, twisting his grip to take a fistful of Wade’s shirt and skin, yanking him up until they’re nose to nose.

Wade smiles, wan but snide, and even manages a little chuckle, his token last act of defiance. “Ha.  Made you look.”

It’s almost too much temptation to snap his neck then and there, but Victor takes a long breath, slowly levering Wade back down (even though he wants to slam him down again and again and again—) and relaxing his lips from their grimace. “Sure you did, Wade,” he says, and then he sucker-punches Wilson right in the gut.

Wade wheezes, curling in a pained ball.  His grip on the hilt of his katana loosens for a fraction of a second, and Victor jerks it free, and sends it skittering into the kitchen. “No more toys for you.”

“Well, that’s… no fun,” Wade gasps, badly winded, trying to pull up in an instinctive ball but halted by the sudden intrusion of Victor’s knee between his legs.  Startled, he glances down, chest still heaving as he attempts to re-learn breathing. “What—”

“Don’t try to tell me this is the first time you’ve been in this position,” Victor growls, dipping forward enough that he could nuzzle Wade’s neck with the slightest tilt, if he were so inclined.  Wade’s leg twitches, like a dog, bare thigh brushing Victor’s hip.

 “I know we’ve known each other a long time, but I don’t put out on the first date.  I’m an honest girl.” Wade tries for flippancy but he’s already been betrayed by his own breathing, hitching on all the wrong words.  He glances aside, just for a moment, the barest edge of a second, and licks his lips.  His fingers have become fisted in the carpet, knuckles white. 

Victor simply breathes against his ear, listening to the pulse racing beneath him, feeling the heat start to rise from Wade’s skin. 

 “I’m sure,” he whispers, nails dragging along Wade’s belly, pulling his shirt up in a slow bunch with something less intrusive than intimacy. “So, how long has it been?”

Wade’s mouth falls a little open, the skin below his eyes twitching as he struggles to not roll back his eyes. “I don’t know, what time is it?”

“Funny,” Victor deadpans, reversing his grip to curl his fingers around Wade’s side, sliding his palm along his stomach, wiry muscles contracting under his palm. The exposed leg against him twitches again, and again, a little jerkily. Creed grins broadly, and rears up enough to watch Wade’s face go through expressions like other people go through socks.

“I try,” Wade rasps as Victor’s wandering fingers toy with the edge of his boxers, aware perhaps of nails sharper than what he was comfortable with.  Wade’s eyes flick down to the goings-on at his groin, then back to Victor’s face. “So, is this how you’re doing recruitment now?”

“Just for you.”

“I’m touched.”

“Hardly.” Victor presses his palm against the tented front of Wade’s boxers, and Wade whines, head slamming back with a solid _thud_.  Someone downstairs hits the ceiling, shouting about holding it down.  Wade doesn’t seem to care, eyes screwed shut as Victor tugs down his boxers, fists his dick hard and slow and dry.  Wade’s hips buck, sudden and strong, and Victor can’t help but laugh.  He rubs his thumb just under the flared glans, squeezing, and Wade makes the most interesting choking noise at that, panting through his clenched teeth. “Oh, Wade, so predictable.  I always _knew_ you were into this.”

“Yeah, well, lookin’ kinda hypocritical there, with your hand on my dick— _f-fuck_ , honeybunches, don’t scratch the paint, I just had it waxed.”

“I came out here special, just to see you.  We want you back.” Victor’s hand pumps methodically, rhythmically, Wade rocking up to meet him in tandem.  It's stangely hypnotic.  Wilson's starting to rip out tufts of carpet, arms trembling, heat pouring out of him like an inferno, a fever, that lingering reek of sickness and sweat increasingly tenfold. “Stryker says to tell you he can fix you.  All you have to do is sign on for a term or two, get back in the program.  It’ll be just like old times.  It’s not like you have anything here to lose.”

The pad of his thumb swipes across the head, and Wade groans, hips giving a particularly powerful thrust, eyes rolling restlessly behind his lids.  It might have been a name that rolled out on the end, sweet and feminine and lost in harsh gasp, but he’s already shaking his head – no, shaking all over – and mumbles, “I’m—it’s not—”

“What do you say?”

“I—” Victor’s tongue swipes out, wet and trailing, over Wade’s collarbone, followed abruptly by his lips, pressing hard against the flushed skin.  He can’t help but dig his teeth in as well.

Wade cries out, coming immediately, back arched enough to press his chest and stomach against Victor’s.  He makes a bizarre, low, broken sound, before flopping down like a discarded toy, swallowing air as if he were afraid he would never get enough. “Fuck,” Wade whispers on the exhale, eyes creaking open, lying lax and devastated on his own floor.

“Close enough,” Victor says, sitting back on his heels. 

Only half of Wade’s mouth makes it up in a smirk; perhaps it's all he could manage, drained of any pretense of vitality he would otherwise maintain. “Was it good for you, too, honey?  You’ve got a little something there.” His hand flops up to gesture vaguely at Victor’s midriff.

Grimacing, Victor looks at his shirt, eyes narrowing. “Great.  Just great.  Where are your paper towels?”

“Um,” Wade says slowly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Kitchen?”

Certain that, for the moment, Wade is as good as down for the count, Victor makes his way into the disaster of a kitchen, hunting through mostly bare cupboards and dusty shelves.   He doesn’t comment about the grenades in the breadbox.

From the living room, Wade calls, “He said he could fix it?” tucking himself back in and getting hold of another handgun from under the end table.  Thusly armed, he rolls onto his belly, pushing up with his arms rising to sit on his heels.  He still sounds winded.  It’s kind of funny.

Victor runs water over a hand towel, trying his best to wipe out the remains of Wade’s spunk. “That’s what he told me.  It’s a new pet project.”

“Bullshit,” Wade says, but he’s already fishing around for his pants, hands shaking and if Victor could be bothered to ask, he would say it was aftershocks. “When do we go?”


End file.
